


Perfect Mishap

by SparkBeat



Series: Commissions [8]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Body Swap, Feels, Mutual Masturbation, Self servicing, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-07-28 23:50:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7661983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparkBeat/pseuds/SparkBeat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brainstorm's at it again....</p><p>Or :</p><p>When the TIC and CMO switch frames.</p><p>What could go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rayearthmagic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rayearthmagic/gifts), [SlimReaper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlimReaper/gifts).



> This was a commission for the wonderful [Rayearthmagic](http://rayearthmagic.tumblr.com/) and [Iopele](http://iopele.tumblr.com). Thank you both so much!
> 
> The adorable image in chapter one was drawn by [Rayearthmagic](http://rayearthmagic.tumblr.com/) :D

**Chapter 1**

 

In hindsight? Drift probably shouldn’t have thrown himself in front of Ratchet the way he did. 

 

In hindsight, he would have pushed Ratchet  _ away _ , following him  _ out _ of the path of the explosion, instead of just bearing the brunt of it and getting blown back against the medic’s chest.

 

Hindsight sucked.

 

And now, thanks to their friendly neighborhood Wheeljack, his spark was inside Ratchet’s frame, and vice versa.

 

And hadn’t  _ that _ been fun? Brainstorm had tried to explain what had happened, but fear of an angry ex-Decepticon bearing down on him in the Hatchet’s body, and a pissed off Ratchet in a heavily bladed speedster’s frame also coming at him had made him retreat with a stutter of an apology behind the blast proof doors, refusing to come out, not even at Perceptor’s request.

 

It was  _ weird _ , because their memories were mostly left in their own drives, in their own frames. Only the important ones, ones that influenced their very sparks, and ones that were extremely recent, were transferred with them to their new frames.

 

Which meant the very first order of business was for First Aid to lock Drift out of the memory banks attached to his new frame. It left him feeling dazed and disoriented, like he was floating, with no substance, no history, to tie him to his... _ Ratchet’s _ ...frame.

 

Ratchet, whether out of pity for his pitiful state, or out of a desire to not be exposed to Drift’s sordid memories, had First Aid lock him out of Drift’s memory banks as well, and after an inspection from the Jr. C.M.O. that gave them the all clear, they both left, awkwardly silent and uncomfortable. Ratchet had quickly excused himself to Swerve’s for a drink, leaving Drift to head for the bridge almost absentmindedly.

 

Now he was trying to listen to Ultra Magnus’ report, he really  _ was _ . But his lines itched, excess energy making him jittery and quick to lose focus. His plating felt as if it had shrunk, even though he was technically  _larger_ than before...in fact, he’d never been such a high weight class in his  _ life _ . He needed to move, needed to do...something... _ anything… _

 

“-ft? Drift?” He jerked back when yellow fingers snapped in front of his optics.

 

“Huh?! Wh-what, I’m sorry, what was that last thing, Rodimus?” The captain rolled his optics, slumping back in his seat and kicking his feet up onto the table, despite Ultra Magnus’ look of utter horror.

 

“Dude...go...do  _ something. _ You look like you’re ‘bout to crawl right out of his plating and  _ Primus _ that’s so weird….I’m talking to my best buddy, who looks like a lost and confused Hatchet...and it’s creeping me out. Seriously.  Go rub one out, get the charge out of your lines, and just chill till we can pry Brainstorm out of his hidey hole and get this slag fixed, ok?”

 

“ _ Rodimus! _ ” He hissed, face flushing and optics immediately shifting to Ultra Magnus, who, for a mech of his size, was doing his best impression of someone who was Anywhere But Here _.  _

 

“Drift, seriously. You think I don’t know the signs? ‘Sides, Mags and I are on  _ good _ terms with this sorta thing now, ok? No need to be embarrassed!” Rodimus grinned, pulling his feet off the table and leaning forward on his elbows instead. “And I also know  _ you _ . So just...if you really can’t do that...then….go arm wrestle the marshmallow or something, please? You’re gonna come unglued if you don’t get rid of this charge somehow, and  _ I’m _ probably gonna go stir crazy  _ watching _ you come unglued, so for  _ my _ sanity, get the frag outta here, and don’t come back till you’ve become better acquainted with this new frame, got me?”

 

“Rodimus, I’m not going to  _ do that! _ This is  _ Ratchet’s _ body, not mine, and certainly not  _ yours! _ I don’t...I don’t have the  _ right _ to do that!” Drift could feel the flush all the way to the tips of his finials, except they weren’t finials...they were Ratchet’s sleek, pristine chevron, and shame ate away at the edges of the charge in his lines as he realized...he really  _ wanted _ to do just what he was protesting doing.

 

“Drift. Go. That’s an order.”

 

With that, Rodimus turned away from the conference table, and strode past a still frozen Ultra Magnus to his coveted captains chair. Drift found he had no response, nearly as floored as the load bearer was, and mutely turned to the door on too heavy, too large feet that seemed to drag with every step.

 

Out in the hall, things were even worse. He bumped into the walls, into other mechs, misjudging distances and his ability to maneuver around obstacles. Every touch was unbearable, even air currents running over his plating were enough to send dull aches to his processor. His whole frame was so painfully sensitive that after the fourth time he bumped shoulders with someone, he had to duck into an unused supply closet to catch his vents and try and focus through the tender ache assaulting his processor.

 

In his body, he could have raced off this surplus energy. He could have done some laps in an unused corridor, or sparred with the training drones, or even  _ Cyclonus _ . He could have meditated even, focused through the energy into the calm he tried to live his life in.

 

But Ratchet’s altmode wasn’t built for racing.

 

If he sparred with a drone, or Primus forbid, Cyclonus, he’d be on the mats in no time flat. If bumping against a mech was agony, he didn’t want to  _ know _ what being struck by a fighter felt like.

 

And if he sat still for more than a few seconds, he feared he’d go crazy.

 

Irritated with himself, with his inability to handle such a simple thing as some excess charge, he struck out, fist denting the wall.

 

And the pain errors overwhelmed his processor to the point where his optics whited out.

 

When the pain finally receded enough he could online his optics again, he was curled up over his knees on the floor, hand cradled against his chest, coolant tears streaking down his cheeks.

 

He’d seen Ratchet hit things before. Pits, he’d  _ been hit _ by Ratchet before…although never as hard as he’d struck the wall...or anything else...but  _ still! _ How did he go through life with his hands this  _ tender _ ?!

 

He tried to pull up any diagrams, saved command strings, something,  _ anything _ that may dial back the receptors in his half numb, aching fingers, and was met with a solid, insurmountable wall of blocked code.

 

_Slag_.

 

A processor ache was building, on top of everything else, and he vented purposefully, optics dimming as he reached up on instinct to rub at his finials to try and soothe the pain. His fingers met with open air, no finials to touch, and his frustration mounted. But the side of his hand brushed against one edge of Ratchet’s chevron, and an idea quickly formed in his mind. Ratchet’s chevron was full of sensors, just like his finials were. If he could ease the stress of his day by massaging his finials, in theory, the same could be done with a chevron, right? 

 

He’d seen Prowl pinch and rub at his often enough.

 

The first firm touch of his fingers to his...Ratchets? His? To the chevron...suddenly, all that excess energy had a focus, and it sharpened into something definite, something …  _ new _ .

 

His processor was overwhelmed, feedback from the sensors in both his finger tips  _ and  _ the edge of his chevron fighting for dominance. There was a tingle, a crackle of energy on the surface of his plating, and something low in his hips tightened, and then released so suddenly he had no name for it.

 

For long, tense moments he knelt on the floor of the closet, processor racing. What  _ was _ that? He tenderly inspected the edge of his chevron, eyed his fingers, wondering if he’d ….  _ Primus _ please don’t let him have broken something on Ratchet’s frame  _ already _ . Panic welled in his spark as he continued to find nothing amiss, no reasonable explanation, no  _ hint _ of what had happened, and coolant tears pricked at the corners of his optics as frustration started to build alongside the panic. 

 

Placing both hands on his thighs with a firm, heavy touch, he pulled them away again, startled to find dampness on his fingertips. 

 

What.

 

The.

  
Pit?

 

Looking down, he saw the damp sheen of fluids along the insides of his thighs, telltale streaks that originated from the edges of his sealed panel. Now nausea bloomed in his tank, accompanying the panic and horror that edged out his frustration as he realized what he’d done.

 

What he’d done to  _ Ratchet _ . 

 

Without consent.

 

Oh  _ Primus _ ….A strangled whimper peppered with static escaped his vocalizer. He had to get home. Had to get cleaned up. Couldn’t … couldn’t let Ratchet know what he’d done to him….couldn’t face that right now. He needed to get somewhere safe, and quiet, and dark, somewhere he could barricade the door, and  _ think _ .

 

As he stood, the dampness on his thighs caused his tank to twist, the sensation of single droplets of lubricant trailing down his thighs lines of itching fire that no booster had ever made him feel before. 

 

First, he needed to get  _ clean. _

 

~~~~~

 

Ratchet settled onto a barstool at Swerve’s, and rested his elbows on the bartop while he waited for Swerve to come his way. Even  _ this _ felt  _ weird _ . They weren’t  _ that _ far apart in stature, but just the slight extra bend at his knees, the way his back curved just a hair more for his elbows to rest comfortably on the bar, it all nibbled at his processor...at  _ Drift’s _ processor, he supposed. He felt strange, empty, like he was only half a mech. He hadn’t been this lacking in data and memories since he was extremely young, and it left him feeling off balance. 

 

To make matters worse, the block First Aid had installed at his request, as a sign of respect for Drift and the speedster’s past, was like a giant, glaring obstacle in his minds eye. It was like purposefully ignoring the combiner in the room, and in doing so, it was all he could focus on.

 

Which really wasn’t a bad thing, in all actuality...it meant he  _ didn’t _ focus on how deaf and blind he felt, with hands that made his old, aging ones seem  _ eons _ ahead in upgrades. It was like having twenty or thirty coats of paint too many on them, everything felt so  _ dull _ .

 

_ Finally _ , Swerve stepped up to the bar in front of him, wiping down a glass and grinning.

 

“The usual?”

 

“I think a double shot would be better at this point.” Ratchet grumbled, glaring at the back wall. He missed the strange look Swerve shot him. He didn’t miss the way the bartender slowly set the glass in his hand down and backed away from the bar a step.

 

“Uh...Drift...sir...not that I’m not glad to serve you, more than glad really, I mean, whatever you want, customer’s always right and all that, but...uh...are you ok? You  _ never _ drink…”

 

It was like ice poured directly into his lines, and he straightened up on the barstool with a silent curse.

 

Of  _ course _ he didn’t drink. Swerve didn’t know about Drift’s beginnings.  _ Couldn’t _ know, really. But Ratchet did. Of  _ course _ he did. He remembered Drift’s early days, even if the majority of the memories were locked in his own memory banks somewhere else on the ship. It was a memory he was intimately familiar with by now, their first meeting. He couldn’t quite dredge up specifics, couldn’t remember the color of that Drift’s plating, or the scent of the burnt circuits in his core processor, but he  _ remembered _ , vividly, spark deep, the way he was carried in, already half dead, overcharged on circuit boosters that blew out half his relays before Ratchet could stop their progression.

 

First Aid didn’t know those specifics, either, though he’d given Ratchet a datapad with some worrying information on it. While locking away his access to Drift’s memories, the Jr. C.M.O. had seen up close what years of starvation and boosting and abuse had done to the speedster’s mind. Not in the way Rung would, not in the way that hurt, spark deep. But in the way that showed how over 90% of his memories were stored in sectors of his processor, his cached memory, in places he had easy access to it. It showed how the current data was slipping away, byte by byte, from where it was stored in standard memory sectors, in a way that indicated drive failure. The boosters, whether over time or in that final big bang, had eaten away at the connections his processor made to memories in storage. They’d seen how Drift worked around that by actively moving things, storing them elsewhere, and keeping a complex directory tree in a tiny external storage chip that didn’t appear to have been removed from his wrist reader in centuries.

 

They’d agreed something needed to be done, but they were both at a loss as to  _ what _ . And right now, Ratchet was in no state of mind to try and problem solve.

 

His spark insisted he needed the soothing numbness of engex. But logically, he knew he  _ couldn’t _ do that to Drift. Knew that the speedster purposefully stayed away from any processor altering substance, for fear of becoming an addict again. To knowingly pour engex into Drift’s tank, no matter how bad Ratchet wanted it, was tantamount to  _ torture. _ The chemical effects of the highly refined fuel would last for hours, possibly a day or more, seeing as Drift would most likely be a lightweight. Ratchet’s spark insisted he could drink more than a few drinks before it would kick in. But Drift’s frame didn’t know that, didn’t have the tolerance, or the weight class, for Ratchet’s level of drinking. If there were any lingering effects active in his frame when they were switched back, he could seriously mess up Drift’s processor by shoving him back into a frame that was already slightly drunk.

 

Swerve was waiting quietly, and Ratchet forced a smile, though he was sure it looked more like a grimace. 

 

He  _ really _ wanted a fucking drink.

 

“You’re right,” He finally said, deciding it best to just go with it and let Swerve continue to believe he was Drift, “Just feeling a bit … off, today. But I...uh, I appreciate you calling me out on it. Just the regular.” He’d find a way to thank Swerve later, for keeping him from making a major blunder. For now, he eyed the neon pink drink swirling with additives that the metallurgist-turned-bartender set in front of him.

 

The regular turned out to be race grade energon, and Ratchet was surprised how  _ sweet _ it tasted on his glossa, nothing at all like the standard midgrade fuel most grounders drank. He’d never had something so sweet in all his life, but with taste receptors already wired to that flavor, he found he enjoyed it far more than he normally would. 

 

It wasn’t the drunk stupor he was craving, but it was a different kind of enjoyment, and for now, he was content to take it. He sipped slowly on the drink, thick and rich, and studied his …  _ Drift’s _ face, in the mirror behind the bar, the handsome features downturned into Ratchet’s natural scowl, and that looked so  _ wrong _ . He consciously smoothed out his expression, into something more neutral. Better.

 

He caught his foot tapping against the bar, in time to the beat of the music playing over the speakers, some catchy, popular song that he’d heard mechs singing or humming in the halls more than once. Flexing his foot, pointing his toe, feeling his leg stretch, and he realized with a start that dropping nearly 4 weight classes meant he was as light as he’d been before all the battle grade armor and upgrades...though he’d  _ never _ felt  _ this _ flexible before in his entire  _ life _ .

 

The urge to see if he could still dance like he used to, back in his academy days, was sudden, and almost overwhelming. He found himself swaying in place, toe caps tapping the bass and drums out against the solid steel of the bar, and was halfway to rising when he saw the strange look Swerve was giving him.

 

Right.

 

Drift.

 

Officer.

 

_ Responsibility _ .

 

Nobody had ever seen the TIC cut loose in Swerve’s. He doubted anybody ever  _ would _ .

 

Suddenly, the drink was  _ too _ sweet, too heavy and cloying on his glossa. He didn’t feel relaxed anymore, didn’t feel comfortable in this sleek, attractive frame that wasn’t  _ his _ . He pushed away from the bar with a sigh, paying off the drink over comms as he left the bar without a backwards glance. If Swerve found it strange that Drift was paying with Ratchet's code, he wisely bit his glossa. It could wait.  


 

Mechs gave him a wide berth in the halls, whether out of respect or fear he couldn’t tell. It felt strange to be given such a wide swath of space. Even with his notoriety for being gruff and grumpy, mechs would often stop him in the halls, wave, want to chat or just say hi. 

 

Not Drift, though, it seemed. Too many people still considered him ‘ex-Con Deadlock’ and not ‘Autobot Drift’, Ratchet was discovering. 

 

It infuriated him.

 

Which...probably didn’t help their opinion of Drift, to be real honest, when Ratchet was stomping down the halls, glaring at anyone who crossed his path.

 

Thankfully, he didn’t have too far to go, and as he got closer to his quarters, foot traffic thinned down to nothing, so nobody saw as a grumpy looking Drift walked into Ratchet’s hab suite as if it was his own.

 

He was halfway across the room before the door closed, and flopped down on the berth with a contented sigh. One that turned into a curse halfway through. Sitting up, he pushed himself awkwardly to his feet and spun in a circle trying to reach the damnable sword running down the length of his fracking spinal column. Finally, he succeeded in prying the thing from his back, and nearly pitched it across the room in spite, but a warm pulse of..  _ Something _ running through his hand and up his arm gave him pause.

 

What the…?

 

He glared down at the sword, at the brightly glowing gem embedded in the hilt, and felt another pulse, a wave of  _ reassurance/calm/clarity _ and fuck him if that wasn’t coming from the fragging  _ sword _ .

 

He dropped it as if he’d been scalded, and it clattered to the floor, the glow of the gem dimming and projecting a sense of amusement that had Ratchet’s plating slicking down against his frame. 

 

“Oh no. No. Nonononono. Not interested, not gonna happen. If Drift wants to carry a parasite on his back...I’ll have a talk with him later. But you.  _ You _ are going in time out, you hear me?” Ratchet grumbled, tossing an extra blanket over the sword and bundling it up. It could go in the closet for now, and he’d lock it up in the quarantine room tomorrow…

 

He didn’t think he’d be able to fall into recharge, not knowing that that  _ thing  _ was in the closet, as ridiculous as it sounded. But a sentient weapon...it wasn’t  _ right _ , and it made Ratchet’s plating crawl, and he sat staring at the closed closet door for a short while before hauling himself off the berth with a grumble.

 

“Frag this.” He threw the door open and snatched the sword taking up a good deal of vertical space inside, blanket and all. “You’re going to go somewhere else, so I can get some damn recharge without wondering if I’ll wake up to find you floating over my fucking head.”

 

There was that same wave of  _ amusement _ that washed over him as he stalked the short distance down the hall to the Med Bay, as if the sword was  _ humoring _ him. He almost got this sense of ‘fine, I’ll play along till Drift gets home’, and shoved the damnable thing into First Aid’s hands as soon as he located the other mech.

 

 

First Aid was admirably unfazed by having a sword almost as tall as he was shoved unceremoniously into his space, giving Ratchet a blank look.

 

“Put it in quarantine.”

 

“What?”

 

“You heard me, put the bloody thing in quarantine. Drift can deal with it when we switch back, if he wants, but I don’t want that damn thing in my room.”

 

“Put it in quarantine...Ratchet, really?”

 

Ratchet snarled, stepping into First Aid’s personal space and staring down the other mech, who gave no ground, no sign that he was intimidated. Good. Ratchet couldn’t help but grudgingly admire that, First Aid proved time and again that Ratchet made the right choice in naming him next C.M.O.

 

But in the meantime, he was wasting valuable recharge time.

 

“You heard me. I’m still your boss. Put. It. In. Quarantine.”

 

“Fine, I’ll put it in quarantine. With your chair. And all the other useless junk you’ve got stored in there.” First Aid sighed, and Ratchet could  _ hear _ the optic roll in his voice. “You know...someday, we might actually have to  _ quarantine _ a bot...where are we going to put him then?”

 

“ _Clearly_ , not in my storage locker.” Ratchet snapped, watching closely as First Aid disappeared into the clearly marked room with the sword, and reappeared empty handed. Satisfied it was locked down, he spun on his heel without another word, leaving a bewildered and amused First Aid behind as he went back to his suite for some much needed rest.

 

~~~~~

 

He woke in the middle of the night cycle, flashes of sleek red and white plating still running through his processor, with his fans running high and charge licking across his plating. 

 

His hand was slipping under the thin cover, running down over his abdominal plating before he was even fully online. It was no surprise to him when his fingers met slick protoflesh instead of the firm cover of his panel, not with the dream he’d just had. All slick, smooth plating and breathy moans, a trim speedster frame arching up under his hands as he mouthed along coolant beaded plating and slid his fingers through slick valve folds to find the little nub hidden beneath. 

 

His hand followed his mind’s eye, slipping between his thighs to rub against his charge swollen nub as he arched his hips up off the berth. 

 

He lost himself in the slow build of pressure, the lick of charge crackling across his plating, the slick sounds of his fingers between his thighs. With his optics offline, he could imagine those fingers belonging to the speedster from his dreams, teasing him. With his free hand, he traced over his frame, dipping into seams and teasing sensors and cables within reach. 

 

Long minutes were spent like that, luxuriating in the touching and teasing, just enjoying playing with his frame, but eventually the lack of results became frustrating. His dream mech was slipping away the longer he was awake, and for some reason, he just couldn’t reach that peak, no matter what he tried. His wrist was starting to twinge, and finally, he had to give up. A valve overload just didn’t seem to be in the cards tonight. That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to get what he wanted, damnit. 

 

He pushed up to his knees with an irritated huff, taking his spike in hand and stroking, squeezing, thumb rubbing over the tip on every up stroke. It felt different. Good, but different. He didn’t care to examine too closely though, just wanting to disperse this charge that was quickly going from pleasant to frustrating. 

 

As the lost pressure began to build in his tank again, he bit his lip, venting heavily and letting his optics online and wander. 

 

They locked onto strange blue optics in the mirror on the other side of the room, a generously sized thing most mechs used to check their finish, and that he normally ignored completely. Drift’s face, flushed, covered in a fine sheen of coolant, stared back at him from the highly polished surface. His bottom lip caught charmingly under one fang tip and his optics flared as Ratchet watched the hand that was and wasn't his tighten around his spike, and it may have been wrong of him, but he wasn’t ashamed to admit he tried (and failed) to save an image capture of that handsome face mid gasp to his own missing memory banks.

 

Drift, on his knees, lubricant shining on his thighs, spike thick and solid in his hand, biolights blinking fitfully in the dim light of the room, it was better than any dream, and suddenly, he found it wasn’t difficult at all to reach that peak, overloading with a strangled groan, fluid striping his hand and the sheets between his knees as he kept his optics locked on the reflection in his mirror.

 

He was growing to love that damn mirror.


	2. Chapter 2

Drift woke up feeling absolutely miserable. The charge in his systems was higher than ever, resulting in a long and restless night’s recharge. By now, his plating, his protoform, his  _ struts _ ached. Everything felt swollen and tender, and pushing himself up off the berth was just short of torture.

 

It was glaringly obvious he was going to have to hunt down one of the medics by the time he’d managed to get to his feet, and that only made the lump in the pit of his tank grow heavier. He could only imagine how disappointed they’d be that it only took him the span of a few  _ hours _ to molest and wreck Ratchet’s finely tuned, highly specialized frame. But hiding in the dark wasn’t helping in the slightest, and he didn’t know how much longer he could handle the stress it was putting on his processor. 

 

Before leaving, he tried to refuel, and nearly shattered the ration he’d drawn up all over the floor as the sensors in his hands went haywire just at the small amount of pressure exerted to keep hold of the light weight cube.

 

Hunger pinging on the edge of his hud, every step sending funny little shoots of lightning through his frame that bordered between pleasant and painful, he edged his way down the corridors towards the Med Bay, hoping beyond hope he’d catch First Aid or Ambulon, or even the new mech Velocity. Anyone but Ratchet. Please, Primus, please don’t make him have to face Ratchet just yet. Not like this.

 

He didn’t know if he was being punished (it would make sense, with all the awful things he’d done in his life) or if Primus just enjoyed laughing at him now and again, but as he rounded the corner to the Med Bay, sure enough, the one mech he was hoping  _ not _ to see stepped out.

 

It looked so strange, to see essentially  _ himself _ , stomping out the doors with a glare that would have put Deadlock to shame twisting his face up. Drift froze, caught in the middle of the intersection, pinned by those dark blue optics as Ratchet looked up from the offending tile beneath his feet and caught sight of him.

 

“Drift?”

 

He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know  _ how _ to start. One palm brushed his thigh, and he immediately lifted both palms, away from his sides slightly, trying to hide the tremors that wracked Ratchet’s frame from the medic’s keen gaze. 

 

“Drift, what’s wrong?” In another mech, he’d almost think that little raise in tone could be called worry, or even the first hint of panic. Not Ratchet, though. Ratchet would never panic, never worry. He was always so calm, so collected, even in the face of horrific trauma and frame damage. Drift had watched him work calmly and quickly on the battlefield before, when they were on opposite sides of the war, working to contain a guttering spark as the mech beneath his hands screamed and writhed in pain, without ever flinching. No way this could be panic…

 

Unlike Drift, who felt said panic bubbling beneath the surface, threatening his tenuous hold on his field. 

 

“I...I need to talk to...umm...to one of the medics.”

 

Ratchet tilted his helm, crossing his arms and cocking his hip to the side. This was the first time Drift ever saw the attraction others claimed to see in him, in his curvy frame and heavy thighs, in the way Ratchet so carelessly threw his weight around, accentuating every curve of plating. Drift swallowed hard, intake suddenly dry. The funny fluttering feeling in his tank was back again, and his fans kicked on with a rattle that startled him. He jumped, hands scraping against his thighs, and that jolt of  _ toomuch  _ as charge swollen lines were compressed and sensors went haywire was enough to bring tears to his optics despite his best efforts.

 

“Drift...I’m right here, talk to me?” Ratchet stepped forward, hands held palms up and to the sides in that classic ‘I’m unarmed, I’m not a threat’ posture he used so often himself. 

 

He shook his head, resetting his optics rapidly to try and stem the tide of cleanser pooling at the edges now.

 

“No...um, no. I’d..I’d rather talk to First Aid…” 

 

“He’s with a patient.” Ratchet spoke softly, gently, and extended his field carefully till the calm, smooth edge of it brushed against Drift.

 

“Ambulon?” 

 

“With First Aid.”

 

“Velocity?” He was getting desperate, running out of medics that  _ weren’t _ Ratchet, and his spark nearly stopped when Ratchet just shook his helm, clearly concerned as he stepped forward, closing the gap between them.

 

“Drift, you can talk to me about anything. I thought you knew that?”

 

The tears couldn’t be stopped at this point, his control so frayed and his processor so exhausted from fighting the strange sensations happening to this frame for too long.

 

“Ratch...I need help…” He whimpered, voice warbling over the shortened form of the medic’s name. He didn’t dare call him a friend anymore. Not after what he’d done. Ratchet wouldn’t want anything to do with him after this. That only made him feel  _ worse _ , and his vision blurred. 

 

The next thing he knew, arms were wrapping around his shoulders, pulling him into a slightly shorter frame, smoothing calloused hands up and down his back. He struggled to pull back, each touch too much and not enough and so so confusing.

 

~~~~~

 

Ratchet woke up feeling refreshed, better than he had in a long while. Granted, switching frames and waking up lighter, faster, and more flexible than he’d been in centuries, or  _ ever _ , might have something to do with it.

 

The scent of wax and some sort of organic incense clung to the sheets, but Ratchet found he didn’t mind it, grinning as he stretched his arms up over his head and squirmed, the smooth sheets sliding like silk against his back plates. He wasn’t normally one to lay about in the berth once he’d onlined, but today, for some reason, he could kind of understand the appeal to it.

 

Unfortunately, he had a full schedule of patients to see and maintenance to do, and so he only allowed himself a few minutes of relaxing into the ridiculously plush berth padding before he pushed himself up and swung his legs over the side of the berth. 

 

For the first time in he didn’t  _ know _ how long, when he stood up with a groan, it was because he didn’t want to get up, and not because a gear was stripping, or a plate was snagging, or some other ‘my frame is falling apart around me’ issue.

 

He filled the short walk from his room to the Med Bay with his ration, sipping on the cube of too sweet fuel and trying (and failing) to remember who was on his schedule for the morning.

 

“If you don’t have an emergency, it’s going to be a while.” First Aid’s voice travelled from the far side of the room, where he and Ambulon were huddled around a berth with the curtain partially drawn. That was fairly unusual in and of itself, so Ratchet didn’t respond, merely crossed the room and stepped around the curtain divider. 

 

Rodimus lay on the berth...lounged on it, more like, arms behind his head and good leg dangling off the side of the berth despite Ambulon’s repeated attempts to lay it up flat on the surface. He beamed up at Ratchet, and he could tell when Rodimus remembered what had happened, as his wide smile slowly started to dim.

 

“Heeeey … you…” Rodimus started strong and finished weakly as realization hit him, giving Ratchet a little finger wave. 

 

Ratchet chose to ignore the lackluster greeting in favor of inspecting the leg that his medics were focused on.

 

“...I don’t even want to know.” He sighed, staring down at the twisted wreckage with a resignation borne of too long spent working in this very space with the same idiotic mechs. Above the knee, streaks of primer grey tore through the orange of his thigh where metal stressed and warped. Below the knee...well, below the knee, Ratchet was staring at the  _ back _ of the co-captain’s leg. 

 

“I may have borrowed pipsqueak’s hoverboard...I won’t yell at him anymore when he loses control.” Rodimus laughed, looking down at the mess of his leg and then back up at the ceiling.

 

“I told you to ban that thing. Years ago.” Ratchet snarled, “For reasons  _ just _ like  _ this _ .”

 

“Relax, my mech! It’s nothing this sterling med crew can’t fix!”

 

“Oh...I think I can fix it just fine.” First Aid shot him a questioning look over his shoulder, and his visor flared wide when he caught Ratchet pulling on one of the sheathed short swords hanging from his hips.

 

“H-hey….easy there, buddy!” Rodimus stammered, shoving himself up the berth with his hands and his good leg, shaking off Ambulon’s attempts at keeping him still.

 

“This is why you aren’t allowed to carry weapons!” First Aid snarled, turning and planting his hands in the middle of Ratchet’s chest plate, shoving hard enough to send him stumbling back. He wasn’t sure he liked being on this end of a medic’s strength...he nearly tripped, catching himself at the last minute and glaring back at his protege. 

 

“No scaring the patients. We’ve got your schedule covered, you don’t have the right in-built equipment to do your job anyway. Just...go. Maybe wave those stupid things at Brainstorm instead, scare somebody into doing their  _ job _ , instead of further injuring a patient.” His optics widened at the acidic tone in First Aid’s voice, unused to being on the receiving end of such a rant.

 

“First Aid, watch it-”

 

“Go. There was  _ no _ call for that.” First Aid sighed, pointing to the door. “Seriously, Ratchet. I’m sure you thought it was funny, but it scared him. Bad. I don’t need him doing more damage to that leg. And without your hands, without all of the scanners and software that are part of your programming, I wouldn’t trust you to do anything more than basic maintenance anyway. Just...enjoy the time off, and we’ll cover the schedule till things get fixed, ok?”

 

Logically, he  _ knew _ First Aid was right. He didn’t have any experience in this frame, he was missing everything he relied on, including the majority of his memories and programs, his reaction speed would suffer from second guessing, he had  _ no right _ to be working on living mechs like this.

 

That didn’t mean he enjoyed being shoved out of his own Med Bay into the hall like some unruly civilian. 

 

He couldn’t even figure out  _ why _ he’d done what he had. His first spark given instinct was to reach for a scanner he routinely carried on his … on his hip.

 

He had never realized how very different Drift was from him, or how strut deep those differences went. Going on a hunch, he would guess Drift had drilled responses like that until they were mechanical reflexes, below the threshold of what needed active memory blocks to use. One wrong move, one second too slow on a battlefield, and he wouldn’t be here today. With so many of his memory banks corrupted, and with the cumbersome way he stored data, to have to actively recall combat skills would have gotten him killed a long time ago. For Drift, reaching for a sword was the first instinct. A blaster, when he was Deadlock, a blade, as Drift, those were his crutches, things to buy him time while he figured out his next move.

 

They  _ really _ needed to figure out a way to  _ help _ him. Ratchet couldn’t  _ imagine _ living like this for long, and he wanted Drift to have the best quality of life he could provide, not this mishmash of patch jobs Drift was living with.

 

He was so lost in thought, he nearly missed the flash of red and white that froze in the middle of the hall ahead of him. Looking up mostly on that ever aware instinct this frame had, he found himself staring across at..himself.

 

Except this was Drift, and he looked  _ miserable _ . 

 

His face was screwed up into a strange sort of grimace, and his optics shone suspiciously with what Ratchet feared were tears, though he couldn’t imagine why.

 

“Drift?”

 

Drift looked up, and flinched. Ratchet caught the way his hand brushed his leg before he held both of them far away from any solid surface. Plating rattled, fine tremors causing him to shiver as he stood there, an Earth deer frozen in the headlights.

 

“Drift, what’s wrong?” Ok, so he was a little unnerved. The poor mech looked about ready to break, and even from here, Ratchet could sense the tumultuous energy of his field held tightly in check.

 

“I...I need to talk to...umm...to one of the medics.”

 

Ratchet tilted his helm, crossing his arms and cocking his hip to the side. The sheath clapped against his thigh, not nearly as solidly mounted as he’d assumed, and hopefully he’d remember to drag Drift in to repair that later. In the meantime, he crossed his arms, pinning him with a no nonsense look. 

 

He heard his own fans kick on across the short distance, the ever present rattle of a bearing gone bad, and watched as that simple mechanical reaction caused Drift to jump nearly out of his plating. His hands smacked against his thighs, and it was like a switch had been flipped as the sheen in Drift’s optics became pronounced tears. 

 

“Drift...I’m right here, talk to me?” Ratchet stepped forward, hands out to his sides, moving slowly and carefully so as to not startle the clearly upset mech. 

 

Drift shook his head, trying and failing to blink away the tears without having to touch his face.

 

“No...um, no. I’d..I’d rather talk to First Aid…” Ratchet smoothly hid the disappointment he felt at Drift’s clear discomfort with talking to him under the calm he was purposefully exuding into his field.

 

“He’s with a patient.” He said gently, and extended his field carefully till he could smooth his field up against the jagged spikes and dips of Drift’s.

 

“Ambulon?” Drift’s voice was edging into the same sort of desperate his field was full of, and it broke Ratchet’s spark. He had to wonder what exactly had Drift so terrified to talk to him.

 

“With First Aid.”

 

“Velocity?” 

 

“Drift, you can talk to me about anything. I thought you knew that?” Ratchet shook his head, stepping forward till he could almost touch Drift.

 

Ratchet could feel when Drift’s tether on his emotions frayed away, a split second before the tears started rolling down his cheeks in earnest. 

 

“Ratch...I need help…” Drift sobbed, voice breaking on Ratchet’s name. 

 

Ratchet didn’t think, didn’t have  _ time _ to think, he was already pulling a struggling, shocked Drift into a tight hug, keeping his touches firm to not tease at the painfully charge sensitized plating. It startled him, how very revved up Drift clearly was, as surplus charge snapped across his own plating. 

 

The swordsmech struggled feebly against his grip, but he refused to let go, smoothing his hands down Drift’s back, searching for any signs of damage, something,  _ anything, _ that would explain why he was so distraught.

 

When he found no physical damage, he couldn’t deny the truth glaring at him any longer. 

 

“Shh...Drift, shhhh, it’s ok, I’ve got you.” Drift wasn’t outright crying, but his vents were hitching, and his hands shook as they hovered just over Ratchet’s waist. 

 

“Ratchet, I’m so sorry, I’m so so so sorry.” Drift was mumbling into his shoulder, and Ratchet shook his head. He was so confused.  _ What _ was Drift apologizing for?

 

“Hey, hey, Drift, come on, look at me.” He didn’t let go, but he did lean back so Drift could raise his head, cheeks streaked with the still damp tracks left behind by his tears, optics dim and downcast as he refused to meet Ratchet’s gaze.

 

“Let’s go somewhere quiet, ok? We’ll get you fixed up, good as new. This overcharge has to hurt, I’m sure that’s part of it.” Ratchet was rambling, but he felt slightly out of his depth here, turning Drift away from the medbay and back towards his own quarters, the closer of the two. He kept one arm firm around Drift’s shoulders, not giving him any chance to escape, only releasing him once they were safely enclosed in his hab suite, behind a closed door.

 

Drift didn’t go far, hovering just inside the doorway, staring around the room as if he’d never seen another mech’s sleeping quarters before. Or maybe it was just the shock at seeing that the ‘Hatchet’ actually  _ did _ sleep like a normal mech from time to time, despite the rumors?

 

He smoothed a hand down Drift’s arm, wincing when the other mech flinched at his touch.

 

“Have you been running this high since the switch?” He finally asked, as much to break the awkward silence as to start diagnosing. When Drift just nodded miserably, he couldn’t help but whistle, no  _ wonder _ the poor mech was so wrung out! Ratchet’s power plant would have been producing an excess of energy during the accident, standard response for all medics. Nobody wanted a medic crashing out in the middle of an emergency, so they built up excess. It was useful to have during a crisis, not only to keep them on their feet, but to power all of the tools and equipment they would hook into themselves to use for any given situation. 

 

When the trouble passed, and their processor could tell their frame that everyone was safe, the surplus was no longer needed, the power plant would throttle back down to normal parameters, and the medic would find a way to work off that excess charge. Some mechs had sports, or other recreational activities, racing or flying or any number of things to suck up excess energy and distract their processors from what had happened.

 

Ratchet had always relied on interfacing for that. Whether he had a partner or not, after everyone was in the clear and he could relax, he’d work off that charge with a few good overloads.

 

Drift, it seemed, had gone a different route, and sat and stewed in his problems till they became so painfully unavoidable that he’d had no choice but to seek out a medic.

 

That  _ still _ didn’t explain why he didn’t want to talk to Ratchet about it, though. If anything, common sense would say go to the frame’s original owner  _ first _ , because who would know Ratchet’s frame and it’s varied aches and pains and glitches better than  _ Ratchet _ ?

 

“Well, that’s a simple fix.” He shrugged, deciding to cut to the chase and see where that took him, “It’ll just take a few overloads to work that off, easy enough.”

 

Drift’s eyes snapped up to his at that, optics wide as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Ratchet didn’t say a word, stepping aside to clear a path to the berth.

 

“I...Ratch, you…”

 

“Yea. Me n you. That’d be the gist of it. Unless you want me to leave. It’s however you feel most comfortable. I just want you to get rid of that excess charge before you burn yourself up.”

 

“No! Um...I mean, that is, you don’t...you don’t have to go. I don’t want to kick you out of your own hab suite…” Drift mumbled into his chest plate, wringing his hands together and then quickly shaking them apart. Ratchet reached out, carefully tracing his fingers over plating that fairly crackled with charge, and drank up the way Drift shivered. Firming his grip, he linked their hands together, only just barely managing to hide the grin as Drift finally started processing the sensitivity in his hands in a  _ good _ way and his knees buckled before he managed to straighten himself up.

 

“I’d very much like to stay, if that’s ok.” Ratchet admitted, voice more of a rumble than actual spoken words, as he lead Drift to the side of his berth.

 

Drift nodded, biting his lip and making himself extremely busy climbing up onto the berth and finding a comfortable position against the headboard as an excuse to not speak or make optic contact for another moment. Ratchet gave him that moment of quiet, waiting till Drift felt he was situated, sitting on his heels with his back against the wall, before crawling up after him and settling at the other end.

 

~~~~~

 

Drift couldn’t believe it. Almost  _ didn’t _ believe it. When Ratchet had lead him into his hab suite, he was certain he was walking into his own doom. He’d had to replay his audial feed multiple times before he could process that instead of being furious with him for mistreating his frame so badly, Ratchet was not only concerned, but actually  _ encouraging _ Drift to explore Ratchet’s frame.

 

It seemed too good to be true, a dream maybe, one that he’d wake up from soon, alone in his berth and still aching and miserable.

 

He wasn’t expecting Ratchet’s touch, so the first ghostly brush of fingers over his sensitive hand sent a shiver down his spinal strut. When that touch turned firm, a squeeze of Drift’s own sword callused palm against his new medic sensitive hand, he only just managed to bite back the little whimper that threatened to escape his vocalizer, but there was no hiding the way his knees buckled under the onslaught of sudden overwhelming  _ pleasure _ signals his processor was receiving.

 

There was no way Ratchet couldn’t have noticed that, but he mercifully chose not to say anything, letting Drift awkwardly haul himself up onto the berth and fidget for an embarrassingly long time before deciding to just sit on his heels with his hands in his lap. Now, any time he brushed his hands over his plating, instead of the confused, mixed  _ pain/pleasure  _ signals, he got pleasant little bolts of tingly pleasure that seemed to gather in the pit of his tank, building a slow sort of pressure behind his hips that he’d never felt before.

 

That feeling doubled in intensity when Ratchet, wearing Drift’s frame, crawled up onto the berth with him, slinky and sexy and Drift squirmed, pressing his thighs tighter together as he felt lubricant seep out around the edges of his panel. He’d never thought himself attractive before, not in any sort of sexual sense. But here and now, with Ratchet using his flexibility and curves to their full advantage, Drift could see it. 

 

Ratchet made a show of it, arching his back, stretching as he rose up to sit with his back against the foot of the berth, thighs splaying open to display his array, panel already drawn aside and spike pressurized. Black hands trailed down his bared throat, over his chest and down, fingers tracing over each individual stripe of armor plating along his sides. Drift swallowed hard, licking his lips and trying (and failing) to pull his optics away from the sight in front of him.

 

He reset his vocalizer, feeling the flush creep up his neck and over his cheeks, all the way up to the tips of his finia- _ chevron _ . Ratchet  _ had _ to know what he was doing to Drift, who could only stare in awe as Ratchet slid his palms down the insides of his thighs, pressing on them and spreading them wider still as he sank down into the berth. 

 

“You’re allowed to touch, too, Drift.” He jumped at the softly spoken words, more a purr than actual speech, and Drift had never wondered what Ratchet’s berthroom voice sounded like before today, but he’d  _ never _ forget it.

 

But actually touching? Easier said than done. He lifted his palms from the tops of his thighs, set them back down again. How did Ratchet make it seem so  _ effortless _ ? 

 

“Drift? Have you….have you ever done this before? Self service, I mean?”

 

Shame warred with the lust now as he ducked his helm, giving it a minute shake. 

 

_ Acceptance/Reassurance/Comfort _ flooded his EMF receptors, and he looked up to see Ratchet had removed his hands to the tops of his thighs, mirroring Drift’s awkward pose as he offered him a soft smile.

 

“No shame in it, Drift. There’s gotta be a first time for everything, right?” There was no judgement, no pity, in Ratchet’s voice, and Drift was equal parts shocked and grateful for that. “Lucky for you,  _ I  _ know my frame quite well by now.” 

 

Oh Primus strike him dead, he couldn’t ask for more than the mischievous tone in Ratchet’s voice, the sexy smirk quirking the corner of his mouth up.

 

“Just do what I do, and I promise, you’ll like the results.” Ratchet said, making sure Drift was watching before he trailed one hand up his abdominal plating, smoothing over chest plating and tilting his helm back as his fingers brushed over taut throat cabling. 

 

Drift wanted to freeze, to just lean back and  _ watch _ , but Ratchet onlined one optic and looked at him with an expression that plainly said ‘Well? What are you waiting for?’. Where the medic in a speedster frame was smooth, unhurried, unfairly sexy, the speedster in the medic frame felt slow and clunky and awkward and decidedly  _ un _ sexy.

 

But as his fingertips brushed over his throat, feeling the hum of charge just below the surface, the way they flexed as he swallowed, that band of pressure behind his hips increased a bit, and he let his head drop back, mimicking Ratchet’s posture as he ignored what the medic was doing in favor of exploring this strange feeling that kept slowly building. 

 

“That’s it,” His engine gave a sharp rev, so much lower and stronger sounding in this frame than in his own, at the sound of Ratchet’s voice, “Just like that.”

 

Ratchet watched him with dark, hungry optics, drinking in every twitch of plating, every soft gasp he couldn’t  _ quite _ swallow down. Drift felt the heat in his cheeks flare, matching the almost unbearable heat building lower in his frame under his hesitant touches. 

 

As he watched, Ratchet pressed his free hand against his chest plate, and slid it slowly down the central line of his frame to that space between his thighs, lit with pulsing biolights that reflected of the lubricants he slid his fingers through. Drift’s fans kicked up another notch, to his mortification, and he found his own hand wandering even slower down his own borrowed frame. This wasn’t meant to be a teasing, sexy act, though, more the halting unsurity of a mech so far out of their depth there was no hope for survival. 

 

He was burning alive, that was the only way he could describe the heat building under his plating, the way his touch left a tingle of fire in its wake that made his plating rattle and quiver. There was no other possibility, he was slowly melting inside his armor, and the CMO smiling so wickedly at him would be the herald of Primus that led him into his death with a bang. 

 

“Drift. Eyes on me, sweetspark.” Ratchet told him, low rumbling voice cutting through the fog of Drift’s processor better than any blade. The endearment was what his processor locked on to, and he raised his optics, shocked, to meet Ratchet’s.

 

The medic didn’t seem to notice, or realize what he’d said, because he only waited till he had Drift’s attention before licking his lips and rolling his hips up into his hand, never breaking optic contact as his fingers found Drift’s...his nub, rolling the flats of two fingers over the little charge swollen bit of metalmesh. Drift shook, unable to tear his optics away from the sight of what should be his own fingers, playing with that little nub he’d never given any attention to before, teasing and tweaking it, alternating between slow, smooth, firm strokes and fast, tight little circles. 

 

Where Drift was quiet, or tried to be, anyway, Ratchet was loud, shameless, arching up into his own touch, gasping, moaning, and those  _ noises _ . They weren’t the sounds of a buymech putting on a show, the sounds Drift hated to hear coming out of his vocalizer. They were  _ genuine _ , the sounds Drift had always  _ wanted _ to make, but never had any reason to. They sent little bolts of something straight to the pit of his tank, and he worried he was becoming addicted to them, and the feelings they caused in him, as he watched the medic play his frame so expertly. He was genuinely surprised that Ratchet was  _ succeeding _ in arousing his frame, and he found himself wanting,  _ badly _ , to be back in his own plating, to be the one experiencing Ratchet’s skills as Ratchet brought him to the brink, and held him there. 

 

Instead, he was stuck here, on the other side of the berth, which might as well be  _ miles _ apart for all the courage he had to reach out and touch the other mech, no matter that it would  _ technically  _ be touching himself… Ratchet fixed him with that expectant look again, and he realized with a start that he’d gotten distracted in his little monologue, and his hand was circled around his (Ratchet’s!) spike.

 

“Close...but not quite where I want that hand to be.” Ratchet chuckled, dropping the hand on his throat to brace against as he arched back, hips tilting up and thighs spreading wider so when his fingers tapped against his external node, there was no way Drift  _ couldn’t _ notice it, it was like every line on Ratchet’s borrowed frame all pointed to that one space,  _ touch here _ written in his body language and field alike.

 

When Drift didn’t immediately remove his hand to where Ratchet wanted him to, the medic slowed his own touches, blinking and tilting his head, clearly inspecting Drift. For what, he wasn’t sure.

 

“Drift...It’s not gonna bite you.” Ratchet said gently, sitting up straighter and pushing a wave of  _ calm _ into his EM field. Underneath that was a pulse of  _ lust _ he couldn’t quite contain, and it helped a bit, because Drift could pretend it was for  _ him _ , and not just due to the circumstances, and it emboldened him enough to move those scant few inches.

 

The first soft, barely there touch of his overly sensitive fingers to his node was a shock that made him jump. His first instinct was to press his thighs together, to protect and shield while he sorted out exactly what category this strange new sensation fell into, pain or pleasure. His hand, unfortunately, was in the way, not having drawn it back quickly enough, and so in the end he only succeeded in trapping his hand right where it was. 

 

“Good, Drift, just like that. So good, so hot….slag, I dunno how you make my clunky old frame look sexy, but you  _ do _ .” Ratchet groaned, still rubbing his fingers in slow, distracted circles over his nub as he watched Drift fumble and twitch. 

 

He wanted to laugh. Wanted to protest the compliment Ratchet had just handed him. He wasn’t hot. Well...not in  _ that _ way.  _ Certainly _ not  _ sexy.  _

 

But he was a little preoccupied with the odd  _ toomuchnotenough _ feeling between his thighs. His frustration grew as it continued in this strange vein, until he was pulling his hand away, shaking his head, frustrated almost to tears again as he balled his fist up on his thigh, trying to ignore the sticky dampness that clung to his fingers.

 

“Drift...babe…” He wouldn’t look at Ratchet,  _ couldn’t. _ Couldn’t admit his failure, his lack of...not desire,  _ definitely _ not desire. He wanted Ratch...wanted him in whatever way he’d be allowed to have him, at this point, even if it was only mutual self servicing, and that  _ scared _ him. But he just...he clearly wasn’t meant to enjoy this sort of thing, and the flush on his cheeks was more from shame than anything else now.

 

But not being able to face Ratchet meant he didn’t see the other mech move, didn’t realize until it was too late to retreat. Suddenly, he was staring at himself, at his own face, as Ratchet shuffled into his personal space, till their knees were pressed together, and their vents mingled, damp, hot exvents swirling between them, visibly warping the air between their frames. He expected pity, expected Ratchet to force him to look up.

 

Instead, Ratchet leaned in, bumping their foreheads together and dimming his optics till they were nearly offline. 

 

“Sweetspark, what’s wrong?” When Drift didn’t answer, Ratchet pressed on, gently laying both warm palms on Drift’s thighs. “Does it hurt?” He shook his head, forehead rubbing against Ratchet’s. And it  _ didn’t _ , not really… 

 

One calloused hand curled over his, gently urging his fingers to uncurl and guiding his hand back between his thighs.

 

“If it doesn’t hurt...let me show you, hmmm? If you don’t like it, or it hurts, we’ll stop, we’ll figure something else out to get rid of the charge, but...trust me? Just for a few minutes?”

 

_ Of course I trust you, with my  _ **_life_ ** _ , I trust you!  _ The words burned in his vocalizer but he couldn’t force them out. He nodded mutely, optics offlining so he wouldn’t have to see the pity or disgust he was sure Ratchet was feeling at having to guide this pathetic wreck through something as simple as self service. 

 

The first touch of his own fingers between his thighs was as weird as before, that strange feeling of too much and not enough all at once that had him flinching, trying to pull away and push into the touch at the same time. But before he could say anything, or do anything, Ratchet was pressing a little firmer on his fingers, and the pressure finally shifted it firmly into the pleasure camp. He bit his lip, trying and failing to stifle the surprised gasp at the sudden shift.

 

Ratchet chuckled, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. 

 

“Feel a bit better?” As he spoke, he manipulated Drift’s fingers, mimicking what he’d been doing before. Drift couldn’t speak, couldn’t really think much on anything but that confusingly pleasant pressure building in his array, like a band tightening around his hips and he wanted to find out what would happen when that pressure released, craved it in a way he hadn’t craved anything for a very long time, and it frightened him just a bit, he wasn’t going to lie.

 

But to vocalize all that required effort and a grasp of neocybex he didn’t at this point have. Instead, he just nodded, mouth falling open on an embarrassingly wanton moan as Ratchet shifted their fingers slightly, and the band tightened further. His whole frame was tense, trembling, on the edge of something  _ big _ , and logically he knew it was an overload, but realistically, he was in unfamiliar territory, and he didn’t know what was going to happen for sure when that pressure released and he wanted it and feared it in equal measure.

 

“Overload for me, sweetspark?” Ratchet’s lips brushed against his own as he spoke, so achingly close to kissing. Drift wished he had the bearings to tilt his helm, close that tiny bit of distance between them, get that kiss that was so close yet so so far away. But Ratchet leaned back, and before Drift could feel disappointed at the loss of that once in a lifetime opportunity, Ratchet’s free hand, slick and warm from his own array, closed around Drift’s wrist, pulling his own unoccupied hand up between them.

 

His vents quickened, watching with wide optics as Ratchet slid two of his fingers between his lips, never breaking optic contact as his glossa slid over thin plating and unerringly located every single hyperactive sensor. It was like the final piece to a very strange puzzle slotting into place, as the wet heat and clever glossa playing over captured digits and Ratchet’s clever fingers between his thighs combined had that liquid heat in his belly contracting, and then expanding, flooding his frame with this temporary sense of freefall. Every cable in his frame tensed so hard he thought they were going to snap, as that pressure released. His optics flared and dimmed, and his HUD was overwhelmed as that too intense charge all left him in one long, pleasureable burst that seemed to never end. 

 

His optics kept dimming, darkness eating away at the edges of his vision as his frame felt light as a feather, floating on the aftermath of that sudden, surprise overload and leaving him feeling weightless and relaxed in a way he hadn’t felt before. Not sober, at any rate.

 

Ratchet was laying him down, unfolding his legs from out from under him and helping him stretch out on the berth, speaking in a low, soothing tone of voice as a forced reboot claimed him and everything went dark.

 

~~~~~

 

Ratchet laid Drift out carefully, speaking soft, reassuring nothings as the other mech’s overly bright optics dimmed and the reboot left him limp, with that dreamy little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

 

He’d almost gotten over how strange it was to see such unguarded,  _ honest  _ emotions on his own face, and he pondered that while he adjusted Drift’s limbs so he’d wake up comfortable. Knowing how quickly his own reboot time could be, he didn’t waste any time cleaning himself up in the little en suite, only rushing in to grab a few cleaning cloths and soaking them in cleanser.

 

When Drift stirred, it was with a satisfied little hum as his systems booted back up without fuss, and without the added strain of all that excess charge. Ratchet could guess he was probably feeling pretty great at this point, so he didn’t say a word, not wanting to risk jolting him out of that comfortable space earlier than need be.

 

Quietly, gently, he ran a cloth along the insides of Drift’s thighs, cleaning up any stray lubricant, and then moving outwards with a fresh one to smooth over his charge heated plating, cleaning up the film of coolant and gently bringing his temperature back down to normal levels. The entire time, Drift was squirming in the sheets, stretching and sighing, optics still offline, a blissful grin on his face.

 

When Ratchet straightened up, he expected Drift to roll over. Maybe online his optics. Possibly feel guilty about what happened. He was prepared for any of those outcomes. 

 

What he  _ wasn’t _ prepared for, though, was for one broad, strong palm to curl around the back of his neck, and pull him down till he was braced on his palms, face hovering just above Drift’s. Before he could say a word, the the hand at the nape of his neck shifted to cup his cheek, and Drift was leaning up, optics still offlined, and pressing their lips together in a soft, sleepy kiss.

 

The leftover bits of charge snapped between their frames, tiny little blue arcs of light in the dim room, as Ratchet recovered from his surprise. Drift was soft and tender, and a little hesitant as he started to fully reboot, but Ratchet wasn’t going to let him pull away, not now. Without breaking the kiss, Ratchet swung one leg over Drift’s hips, settling as much of his weight onto his knees as he could as he dropped down to his elbows and cupped Drift’s face with both hands, deepening the kiss as the dim glow of Drift’s optics brightened to fully online and his intakes seized in his vents. 

 

Fingers curled tight into his shoulders, and lips parted at the first exploratory touch of his glossa. Beneath him, Drift’s engine rumbled, low and heavy and sending vibrations straight to Ratchet’s array. Charge built between them again, the hot, wet slide of their glossas and the needy press of their lips enough to rev them both back up.

 

Then Ratchet rocked down, rubbing their still barred arrays together, and the charge released not with the usual pleasant sensation of an overload, but with an almost explosive force that dimmed Ratchet’s optics and forced a reboot of his systems before he even had the  _ chance _ to worry.


	3. Chapter 3

When Ratchet rebooted, it was with a confused grumble, and a weight draped over his frame that wasn’t there before. 

 

How did he wind up flat on his back? Had Drift rebooted quicker than him?

 

Instinctively, he reached for his diagnostics programming, and was shocked when it actually  _ responded _ .

 

Data flowed across his HUD, standard measurements for spark pulse, vent rate, temperature, fuel pump status, energon levels, the usual, and all of it within normal parameters apart from his temperature, which was steadily rising as the majority of his vents were blocked by either the berth or whatever was on top of him.

 

His processor was running so sluggishly, reconnecting with his spark, that it took him an embarrassingly long moment to realize that weight was  _ Drift. _

 

Onlining his optics, he took in the dazed, confused expression of the speedster splayed out over his frame. Sleepy optics refreshed slowly, and in this slow state where everything was reconnecting and his battle processors weren’t the first thing to boot, he looked so relaxed, and so much  _ younger _ . Ratchet wanted to reach up and pet those finials, frame that face, steal another sweet kiss.

 

Drift beat him to it, dragging himself up Ratchet’s frame with what seemed to be far more effort than normal, and pressing a soft, sleepy kiss to his cheek. Slowly, massively uncoordinated in a way that made Ratchet suspect he hadn’t been aiming for his cheek, Drift peppered his face with those sweet little kisses till Ratchet took pity and cupped his cheek, slotting their lips together and letting Drift take the lead once he was sure the swordsmech wouldn’t wander off. 

 

He could  _ feel _ when Drift finally finished booting, in the way he tensed, froze, splayed over Ratchet’s frame as he was. Much as he wanted to, he didn’t fight when Drift pulled away, though he did wrap his arms around the mech’s lower back, to keep him from escaping too far. It was an easy choice to make, to give him a few minutes of silence to process the switch in frames, while Ratchet quickly undid all the blocks First Aid had placed on his systems.

 

The next logical step, then, was to offer a data cable to Drift, with a wordless pulse of encouragement and support in his field. Drift wasn’t as confident, taking the cable and studying it for an achingly tense moment before finally plugging it into his own diagnostic port and allowing Ratchet access to his systems to remove the blocks.

 

When the last of the walls crumbled away under Ratchet’s coaxing, he lingered long enough to send more of those same pulses of that thing he didn’t dare call  _ love _ down the line, unfiltered, raw,  _ honest _ in a way Drift couldn’t refute. He’d honestly expected the other mech to be insulted, to lecture him on essentially abusing his authority by doing that while connected to his processor.

 

What he  _ didn’t _ expect, was for Drift’s optics to glisten, for the other mech’s arms to shift round his shoulders, bringing him crashing down chest plate to windshield, or for the other mech to bury his face in Ratchet’s neck.

 

“You can’t mean that.” Drift whispered it again and again, a disbelieving mantra spoken into Ratchet’s shoulder over and over again as the speedster shook, fingers clinging tight enough into his plating to dent.

 

“Drift….of  _ course _ I mean it.” Ratchet protested. He wanted to push Drift back, just enough to see his face, to put an expression to the riot of emotions whipping that familiar field into a frenzy.

 

Drift shook his head, finial bumping against Ratchet’s cheek, and Ratchet contented himself with running his hands up and down Drift’s back, idling his engine at a low rumble that vibrated up into the other mech’s plating as fingers ever so slowly relaxed their death grip on his frame. Still, he waited, pushing as much  _ calm/non judgemental  _ as he possibly could into his field as he let Drift push himself up on his own. Settling his hands onto those wicked curves, thumbing at splayed hip joints, he looked up at an extremely confused Drift.

 

“Ratch-”

 

“Drift-”

 

They spoke at the same time, and Drift clapped his hands over his mouth, while Ratchet just chuckled.

 

“You first?” Drift shook his head, finials slowly relaxing into a more neutral position as Ratchet continued to stroke over those hypersensitive joins.  “Fine, I’ll go first. Drift, this was...this was honestly the  _ weirdest _ fragging thing that’s  _ ever _ happened to me. And you know some weird slag has happened in the past. But I don’t regret it. In fact, I may not follow through with my threat to weld Brainstorm’s face to his skid plate. Maybe. Because it gave me an opportunity to experience life in your plating, and it’s only made me respect you  _ more _ .”

 

He tightened his hold on Drift’s hips, a warning squeeze when the TIC shook his head and opened his mouth to argue. 

 

“No, you don’t get to argue with me on that. You’re an amazing mech. The past is in the past, and you work so hard to be a better mech  _ now _ , and that’s what counts, you hear me?” A mute nod was all he could hope for at this point, and rewarded it with a lopsided smile, and soft, soothing touches over the almost imperceptible divots his fingers left in smooth plating. “I don’t want you to disappear now that we’re back in the right frames. Don’t hide from me, don’t be embarrassed? Cause I sure as slag ain’t.”

 

“...What are you saying, Ratch?” Drift finally asked, hands curling over Ratchet’s on his hips, not to pull them off, but to hold them there, almost as if he was scared Ratchet would change his mind, pull away, or push Drift off.

 

“I’m saying….slag, I think I’m sayin’ I love you, kid.” Ratchet winced, way to just  _ blurt it out _ .

 

Drift didn’t say anything for long enough that Ratchet started to worry. He was just about to laugh it off as a joke, try and salvage what he could of their friendship, when the mech hovering over him gave a little bark of laughter, shoulders shaking, optics dim and hidden in the shadows as he tilted his head down. 

 

“Drift?” 

 

“No...no, Ratch...That’s just  _ too _ cruel…” Drift giggled, voice edging towards hysteria as his EM field closed off and withdrew behind the protective shell of his armor. “I  _ know _ I’m not worth it, ok? Please, don’t...don’t joke about that.”

 

“Drift...” Ratchet growled, pushing up to sit against the headboard, sending Drift sliding down into his lap with a squeak of surprise. 

 

His hands were quick to come back to Drift’s hips, keeping the other mech from retreating, which was so clearly what he wanted to do. Leaning in, he bumped their foreheads together, looking up into dim, cleanser filmed optics, and he realized something.

 

Drift  _ genuinely  _ didn’t think he was worth Ratchet’s affections. Something in his spark, a soft little piece of it he thought had shrivelled up to char centuries ago,  _ ached _ , deep in his chest, at that thought, and his hands left Drift’s hips, arms wrapping around the shaking mech’s back and pulling him in as close as they could physically be, pressing soft little kisses to a scuffed and scarred chest plate when Drift lifted his head to escape from Ratchet’s optics.

  
  


“Drift, look at me.” His voice caught in his voxcoder, spitting static, but he managed to get the demand out, and waited patiently for the hurting mech to slowly,  _ so slowly _ , lower his head. Cleanser no longer filmed over his optics, it streamed down his cheeks, dripping off his chin, and he bit his lip, finials pressed flat against the sides of his head as he waited for what was sure to be a rejection, no doubt. 

 

Ratchet cleared his vocalizer once, twice, a third time, trying to find word that bore the weight necessary to convey how he truly felt about the mech in his lap, and found himself lacking.

 

“Oh slag it all.” He cussed, reaching up and curling his fingers around the back of Drift’s helm, dragging the surprised mech down to press their lips together. His thumbs smoothed away tear tracks on those pale cheeks as he coaxed Drift into responding, glossa tracing the tight seam of the other mech’s lips. When Drift finally acquiesced, Ratchet could have cheered. 

 

Instead, he settled for the slick, warm slide of glossas, of the taste of Drift, so much nicer when he was tasting it with his own glossa, instead of Drift’s. Drift moaning, his hands curling into the spaces under his shoulder armor, Ratchet couldn’t help what that did to him, and he broke the kiss, gasping out an apology as his spike pressurized against the slick protomesh of Drift’s array.

 

Drift giggled again, and Ratchet braced himself for another denial, possibly more tears, but Drift only leaned back, swiping at his optics with the back of his palm.

 

“You ok, kid?” He leaned back on his palms, looking up at the vision of beauty the other mech made kneeling over him.

 

“Why do you call me kid?” Drift blurted out, leaning back on his own palms, braced against Ratchet’s thighs.

 

“Cause you make me feel slaggin’ old,  _ kid _ .” Ratchet grumbled, and clapped one hand over Drift’s mouth before the mech could protest, “I  _ know _ you’re older than me, if you don’t think I know your serial code and creation date, what kinda medic do you think I am? But you’re energetic. And so  _ fraggin’ hopeful _ .” 

 

“...” Static, and an audible reboot of Drift’s vocalizer, then “I … never let myself hope that you’d tell me you loved me…”

 

“Well, I do. Now...do we need more chat time, or can I get back to kissing you silly?” Drift snickered, leaning in and slotting their lips together once more.

 

Slow, sweet kisses turned heated, and as their fans kicked into high gear, Ratchet was surprised to find Drift shifting in his lap, valve slick and warm as it slid over his spike, Drift’s movements getting more pronounced as Ratchet’s hands started to wander.

 

When Drift’s hands framed his face, leaning in and forcing him to tilt his head back or break the kiss, it was then that Ratchet realized he could happily sit here and  _ just _ kiss Drift for  _ hours _ without complaint. The speedster rocking in his lap, with all those organic  _ curves _ , that sleek plating, that EM field filling with  _ lust/want/desire,  _ it was intoxicating in a way no engex had ever been. 

 

He was fast becoming addicted to Drift’s kisses, and he feared there would be no rehab from it.

 

When Drift pulled back, vents racing, optics darkened and intent, Ratchet  _ whined _ , fingers curling into his hips and trying to pull him back in. The swordsmech froze, immovable, and that in itself caused Ratchet to freeze as well. 

 

_ What had he done wrong? _

 

Drift was chewing on his bottom lip, the soft dermal plating trapped behind that fetching reminder of his past, and Ratchet hadn’t had a thing for fangs before now...then again, Ratchet was finding he was suddenly attracted to a  _ lot _ of things he hadn’t been before. Like the scent of that woodsy, organic polish clinging to Drift’s plating. The endearing way Drift’s finials were forever tilted in an innocently confused looking expression unless he was actively, consciously manipulating them. The expressiveness of those bright blue optics. The way even without his sword, Drift sat neutrally in a very straight backed position, which pushed his hips forward, pressurized spike rubbing against Ratchet’s abdominal plating.

 

In the time it took Ratchet to list off a  _ fraction  _ of the things he loved about Drift, the speedster had apparently made up his mind, and a warm hand reached between spread thighs and wrapped gently, tentatively, around Ratchet’s spike. He couldn’t have contained the noise that bubbled up out of his vocalizer if he’d tried. Which he didn’t…

 

He was a little preoccupied with those strong, calloused fingers gently stroking over the thin, interlocking plates of his spike, and it took every ounce of willpower he had to remain still and allow Drift to move at his own pace. 

 

“...” Another garbled blat of static from Drift’s vocalizer, and the blush that tinted his cheeks was so sweet, Ratchet wanted to touch that plating, to feel the heat just beneath the surface, press reassuring kisses to every inch of the other mech, but instead he waited patiently. And so long as nobody noticed how very tightly he was balling his fists up into the sheets behind him, patient was a believable word. 

 

“Sorry...I...it’s just, um...believe it or not, this is new to me…It’s the one thing I...I never had to sell, back then.” Drift chuckled, nudging the head of Ratchet’s spike up against the plush rim of his valve. 

 

“Wait.” Drift froze, field drawing back in against his frame, “No, Drift, I’m not saying I don’t want to. I’m saying, let’s do this  _ right _ . I don’t want to hurt you.”

 

“You won’t, Ratch.”

 

“Damn right I won’t.” He surged up, locking lips once more and pushing Drift off balance enough to remove both hands to Ratchet’s shoulders to steady himself. 

 

Satisfied, Ratchet let his hands roam down Drift’s sides, over his aft, squeezing warm, supple plating. It was awkward, it was a stretch, but if this was how Drift wanted to do it, this is how they’d do it, but not without making sure he wasn’t hurt in the process. He slid his fingers through the slickness gathered on warm protomesh, and enjoyed the way Drift shivered against his frame, mouth slack and optics unfocused as Ratchet slipped one finger past the tense rim of Drift’s valve.

 

The ache in his wrist paled in comparison to the warbling moan that escaped Drift’s lips when he pulled away. The surprise that peeked into his EM field when Ratchet curled that single digit and stroked against the sensory nodes partially hidden in the pleats of his valve lining was endearing and concerning all at once, and Ratchet was determined to make sure Drift enjoyed this first experience, one of the only ones he feared he’d ever be able to claim.

 

Drift shuddered, pressing their foreheads together and venting heavily, but his field was full of all the right emotions, and Ratchet slipped a second finger in alongside the first, chuckling when Drift arched into the touch and swore.

 

“Language, Drift, language.” He admonished, pressing a kiss to the center of those adorably twitching finials.

 

“F-frag you.” Drift squirmed, clenching around the fingers when Ratchet spread them apart, stretching the rim of his valve and sliding along more sensors.

 

“No, I think the goal here is to frag  _ you _ .” Ratchet purred, kissing along the sharp sweet of the left finial and nipping lightly at the super sensitive appendage. “And it’s gonna be so much nicer now that you won’t hurt yourself doing it, yea?” Two fingers became three, Ratchet as eager as Drift to get to the main event. 

 

He couldn’t say he was honestly  _ surprised _ when Drift got tired of the teasing, impatient to get the main event started. Or over and done with. He  _ hoped _ it wasn’t the latter…Drift lunged, tugging at Ratchet’s arms, and the medic had to be quick to remove his fingers from Drift’s valve for fear of injuring him as the other mech pinned him to the bed, fangs catching the low light and optics a dark cobalt blue colored with lust and more than a little wildness.

 

“Enough teasing, I need you inside me,  _ now _ .” Drift growled, that rough vocalizer and the firm grip on Ratchet’s wrists sending liquid pleasure to pool low in his tank as the sleek speedster shifted, dragging his valve torturously slowly over Ratchet’s spike. Custody of his wrists was transferred to a single hand, and the one not busy holding him down reached down to wrap firmly around his spike, guiding the tip between plush protomesh folds and oh slag...his processor nearly blanked at the tight, warm grip of calipers adjusting around his spike, guiding him further in, and in, until Drift’s aft pressed against his plating, and the other mech let go of his wrists to brace both hands on his windshield, trembling and moaning, optics offline as he processed the influx of new sensations.

 

Hands freed, Ratchet took the opportunity to take hold of Drift’s hips and pull him down tight, rocking up in small, tight little circles that had the added bonus of trapping Drift’s nub between their plating, grinding against the little bundle of pure nerves and drinking in the sight of Drift as his optics washed out, head tilting back and hands bracing once more against Ratchet’s thighs to compensate for the lack of actual balance.

 

Perfect.

 

Ratchet slowly lifted Drift’s hips, watching as he rose up off his spike section by section, till the rim of his valve was stretched around the tip of his spike, and then Drift was lowering himself back down, against Ratchet’s grip. 

 

“Frag, Drift….you got any idea how amazing you are?” Drift laughed, swatting his hands away and setting his own pace.

 

“If you’re still able to talk, we aren’t ….  _ Ah _ … we aren’t doing this ri- _ ii-oh slag, just like that _ .” 

 

Ratchet grinned, bucking his hips up again and enjoying the way Drift bounced in his lap, that pretty red and white striped spike bobbing, fluid beading up at the tip of his spike, valve calipers cycling down erratically around him.

 

He allowed himself to enjoy the sight of Drift chasing down his own overload for a few moments more, the way his optics went all dim and unfocused, staring unseeingly up at the ceiling, the feel of his fingers curling into Ratchet’s thigh plating, hands and arms trembling as holding himself up became more and more difficult of a task with each passing moment. His calipers seemed to cling to Ratchet’s spike every time he rose his hips, unwilling to let him go, and parted so nicely around him when Drift lowered his hips again.

 

When Drift’s movements became erratic and hurried, that’s when Ratchet made his move.

 

Hooking his fingers into the top of the other mech’s white chest plate, he tugged sharply, and rolled them over without ever sliding out of Drift’s valve. Drift, to his credit, didn’t seem too fazed by the sudden change in positions, arching his back up off the berth and wrapping his legs tight around Ratchet’s waist, urging him to move.

 

“I’ve got you, babe.” Ratchet promised, picking up their previous pace. Gathering Drift’s hands up in his own, lacing their fingers and pressing their palms together, he pinned those clever black hands against the mattress to either side of Drift’s head, and leaned down to kiss him as he pushed signs of love and trust and promises of the future to come so long as Drift will have him into the other mech’s palms. Clumsy and ill-formed as they were, the message came across loud and clear to Drift, and his overload came in the middle of a particularly descriptive sign of wonder and amazement.

 

Ratchet swore, fingers abandoning all pretense of legible signing to tighten around Drift’s as the rippling clench release of calipers mid-overload pulled him over the edge. Rhythm lost, his hips pressed tight against Drift’s frame, the pleasant, processor fogging release of his charge sending skittering stars of feedback up his tacnet with the warm rush of transfluid filling what little space was to be had in the tight grip of his valve. He mouthed kisses along Drift’s throat, up his chin, vents wheezing and gasping for non-existent cool air. 

 

Only to discover the swordsmech out like a light in an overload induced reboot.

 

Collapsing against the warm, condensation slicked frame beneath him, he couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up warm and fuzzy in his frame, shoulders shaking with the force of it as he waited for his frame to start responding once more.

 

~~~~~

 

Drift rebooted slowly, replaying those last few moments in his processor with a lazy grin on his face. What a lovely dream to counteract the nightmare of the past few days. Dream Ratchet saying such sweet things to him,  _ signing _ them to him when words failed.

 

It was such a  _ vivid  _ dream, too. His valve twinged, a not quite ache that made him squirm.

 

Hands pinned his hips, a warm, wet heat surrounding his dream induced pressurized spike. Shifting, still half in a dream, he reached down, fully prepared to wake up when he realized nothing was there.

 

Instead, his hands came into contact with the top of a helm, a chevron. It was like waking from a falling dream, instantaneous, shock sending his fuel pump racing in his chassis. Looking down, he could scarcely believe he was awake, seeing his own battered, destructive hands hovering a scant micrometer above Ratchet’s helm. Ratchet, for his part, spared a glance up from under his chevron, an upward quirk of his lips. 

 

Lips that were wrapped around the base of Drift’s spike. 

 

“Oh frag me sideways…” He breathed, optics wide, flopping back down flat on his back and staring unseeing at the ceiling.

 

Ratchet chuckled, the vibrations of the sound traveling up the length of his spike and coiling that sleep warmed pleasure in the pit of his tank into something tight, something immediate and  _ real _ .

 

::We’ll put that on the list for later maybe?:: Ratchet’s voice, even over comms, could sound ridiculously sexy, and Drift shuddered, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth and twisting his fingers in the sheets to keep from touching the dream turned solid in his berth.

 

::I can practically  _ hear _ you putting yourself down, kid. Knock it off.::

 

“Easier said than done.” He laughed, exventing heavily as that clever glossa did something wicked to the line of biolights on the underside of his spike and deceptively strong hands held him down against the mattress.

 

::What I  _ want _ is to watch you come undone, Drift. Wanna experience your overload without my own getting in the way this time. I want to  _ taste  _ it.::

 

He was trying to  _ kill _ him. That was the only explanation his charge addled processor could come up with as he squirmed in that immoveable grip, moaning like the skiv he’d tried so desperately to outrun and losing control of his field, all of the  _ lust/love/want/shame/disbelief _ warring in the out of control storm he was projecting.

 

::But you keep worrying that I’m not real. Or that you’re sounding like a 2 shanix call-bot. Or what _ ever _ it is your processor’s come up with this time. And yanno what? That won’t taste nearly as nice. So listen. Very,  _ very _ closely, because I’m only going to say this  _ once _ , and then my focus is going to be on seeing how close I can get to sucking your brain module and spark casing out through your spike, am I clear?:: 

 

Drift nodded frantically, feeling the mesh weave of the sheets finally tear under his fingers at the promise of things to come, choosing to ignore completely how very on the head Ratchet was about every single thing going through Drift’s own mind.

 

::I love you Drift. Got it? If you don’t love me back, that’s...fine:: He sounded as though it was anything  _ but _ fine, but the sentiment warmed Drift’s spark, ::I love  _ you _ ...but I also love  _ Drift _ .:: The utterance of his name, even over subvocal comm systems, with those old Rodion inflections, it was a shock to his system, something he couldn’t quite comprehend. And then, ::And...believe it or not, I also love Deadlock. Because he was you.  _ Is _ you.  _ You  _ wouldn’t be  _ you _ without both of them. So don’t think some shadowy part of your past is gonna make me change my mind. Don’t think I’ll associate you with something you  _ had _ to do to survive. Alright?::

 

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes again, and slag it all, he was  _ ridiculously  _ weepy for  _ finally  _ being on the right side of a blow job for sparks sake! The thought alone made him laugh, and he finally allowed himself to touch Ratchet, to finally, once and for all verify that this wasn’t some fevered dream, some phantom creation of his own processor borne out of his guilt and self-hatred to torment himself with. Warm,  _ living _ metal under his palms, vibrating with life, with that brilliant, effervescent spark, finally,  _ finally _ sank in.

 

He had to reset his vocalizer a half dozen times before he found the right words. 

 

Flowery declarations of intent. Teary, spark-felt confessions of love from the start. Quoting the Word of Primus and the Guiding Hand, which would most assuredly end his first time getting his spike sucked prematurely. 

 

Finally, simply, “Love you too, Ratch.”

 

::Good. Now will you please cut the self-pity crap and  _ enjoy _ this? My jaw’s starting to ache.::

 

After that, it was easy to prop himself up and enjoy the moment, the soft sounds of their systems the only break in the comfortable silence. It wasn’t like before, this build up and release of charge. It wasn’t a fast, frenetic energy exploding in a rush, but it also wasn’t a lackluster overload drawn out with a fight, unwilling and unpleasant. Drift lost himself in the slick slide of Ratchet’s mouth, in the gentle touches along his hips and thighs, over the striping segments of armor on his abdomen. He touched in return, what he could reach, stroking Ratchet’s chevron, remembering how quickly it caused a tactile overload when he was in the medic’s frame, but Ratchet only shuddered, drawing a heavy invent.

 

With anyone else, Drift thought he might be embarrassed by how quickly he overloaded after that. With how ridiculously sensitive he was, not to physical stimulation, but the intangible, the knowledge that Ratchet was enjoying himself, that he wanted to be here with  _ Drift _ of all people.

 

He was  _ never  _ going to get used to that. That was his last thought as charge released in a wash of crackling blue energy across his body, frame seizing and mind blanking as Ratchet swallowed his release, fingers once more signing those sweet promises into his plating.

 

Things were a little fuzzy after that, though he knew he immediately tried to drag a protesting Ratchet up to curl up against. Brief snatches of reassurance when his field flared with hurt as Ratchet pulled away and climbed off the berth.

 

“I’m not going anywhere Drift, just need to get something to clean us up-” 

 

Hands on his plating, a warm, damp cloth gently smoothing away all evidence of their time together, and it was ridiculous that he regretted that proof being erased from his frame, wasn’t it? It probably was, but he was floating, safe and warm and  _ happy _ , and he found that quite honestly, he couldn’t be bothered to care right then.

 

Reality faded back into being slowly, and he opened his arms to Ratchet, pulling the larger mech in against his frame and burying his face in the dark shadow of his throat. Arms wrapped around his frame, and then motion, as Ratchet rolled them over so Drift was splayed against his chest, warm palms stroking down his back.

 

“You’re really here, yea?” He felt stupid even as he said it, but he was still having a hard time believing it was all real. 

 

Not the body swapping bit. That? That was pretty much par for the course on this ship. Swapping frames with anyone on the Lost Light fell somewhere between routine and slight amusement, he figured. But the bit where Ratchet not only interfaced with him (multiple times, no less), but maybe wanted more than that?  _ That _ was slightly unbelievable. 

 

“Not a dream, kid. You’ll have to kick me out if you want me gone.” A disbelieving thrill ran up his spinal strut when he  _ felt _ the gravelly rumble of Ratchet’s voice as he spoke, and he couldn’t resist pressing a shy kiss to warm cabling, savoring the pulse of energon against his lips, just below the surface.

 

“Never gonna happen.” He promised, pushing up onto his forearms and studying Ratchet’s face, the soft smile that deepened the lines around his face, but softened the harsh angles into something friendly and caring, and private. 

 

“I’ll hold you to that, you know.” Ratchet laughed, hands settling on his aft, optics sparkling as Drift leaned in to butt their foreheads together.

 

“Or just hold me. That works too.” Drift grinned, tilting his helm that last little bit and sealing the promise with a kiss. 

 

In the morning, they could go hunt down Brainstorm and let him know that it was safe to come out.

 

But for now, Drift wanted nothing more than to curl up next to Ratchet, soaking up the other mech’s heat and trading soft, sleepy kisses that may or may not lead to something more.

 

After all, a little more time spent in fear wouldn’t hurt Brainstorm, right?

 

~~~~~

 

“Honestly, Brainstorm, this is ridiculous. I will  _ not _ request Ultra Magnus place you under a protection program doing rivet duty on the far side of the ship.” Perceptor sighed, rubbing his temple and wishing to be anywhere but where he was, crouched down  _ yet again _ , in front of his fellow scientist’s workstation.

 

“Nope. No way. I’m not the ship’s genius for no good reason, Percy, I’m smart enough to realize I’m a dead mech!” He could just barely make out Brainstorm’s optical glow in the far corner of the shadows beneath the massive workbench, tucked away in a recessed section of the wall that Perceptor could only assume the paranoid MTO had installed for reasons such as this, to hide away from the mechs his inventions inconvenienced. 

 

“For the last time. Come out from under there. I will not continue to bring your rations to you. This is undignified, and unbecoming.” Perceptor finally said, pushing to his feet and walking away. 

 

Brainstorm’s protests followed him as he set the latest cube of energon on a table on the  _ other side _ of the blast doors.

 

“Percy? Buddy? Come back!” The doors sealed, cutting off any further pleading, and as Perceptor settled at his own workstation, he was already sending off a message to their TIC and CMO, marked urgent, with the request that they come deal with this themselves. He had other things to do.

 

On the other side of the door, Brainstorm cautiously poked his head out, calculating the risk involved in retrieving that fuel.

 

His fuel levels were at 80%, he could wait a while longer, he decided, tucking himself back into his safe space and messaging Ultra Magnus for the 739th time, hoping this would be the time his request wasn’t returned to sender.

 

A ping on his HUD, too quick to be anything but another rejection.

  
“Slag.”

**Author's Note:**

> Commission information can be found [here](http://the-sparkbeat.tumblr.com/post/139583432468/price-list-ficlet-100-500-words-1000) if you are interested. Thank you!


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